


Late

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Future, Points of View, Romance, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-26
Updated: 2008-03-26
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: A glance at Brian and Justin post-513; Brian's POV





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes:

This was written for the 3:08am challange at boys4all.  
I would like to thank my wonderful beta snowmore who helped me more than I can say.

Brian's POV. 

* * *

It’s dark and all I see is his blond hair shining against the shadows wafting heavily in the room.   


“You’re late,” he says in a voice hoarse and drunk with sleep and something else, “you said you’d be here at three.”   


I take a breath in order to say that it’s only eight minutes, but his hand covers my mouth in a quick, almost violent gesture while the other one bangs the door shut; he presses me into the wall and without looking, without caring, grabs my small suitcase and tosses it to the floor. His breath is hot on my face, going straight through my skin and my heart instantly reacts, pounding wildly in my ears.   


“Eight minutes”, he whispers, eyes dark, penetrating me, and then his hand is replaced by his lips… and the simple number explodes in a thousand colors in my head.   


My flight was delayed because of the fucking storm in Pittsburgh which had me spend hours upon hours on a shitty plastic chair, ruining my new suit. I called him when I finally landed at JFK, but this was before I knew that it would take ages, and some furious shouting at the incompetent airport staff, to get my suitcase back. Eight minutes, yeah, I’m eight minutes late and it seems that with Justin, I have always, always been late.   


Late on admitting that he was more than a game and more than a fuck, more than once; late on realizing how he slowly but deadly infiltrated me and my world and, worst of all, my heart, tearing down the fortress I built around me, killing me over and over while almost getting killed himself in the process.   


I was far too late on reacting when he drifted away to the sound of a violin, and late again bringing myself to open a pathetic drawer for him, not to fill an empty apartment, but my home and my life.  


I was years late telling him that I love him.   


And most of all, I was late on grasping that I don’t have to bend who I am in order to make him stay, because who I am is the very reason why he does stay.   


Justin is patient. Persistent. I can’t quite believe that he has always waited for me – to come out of my shell, out of my paranoia, my stubborn house of glass, to pick up the phone and finally call him in New York; the same way he waits for me to come first when he fucks me, just like he is fucking me now – out of breath but totally into me, his chest glued to my sweaty back, pulsing through my body in a rhythm which drives me to the very edge, reducing me to moaning, ecstatic jelly.  


It is 3:08 am and this is us – never really on time, never quite right, never smooth, always messy and untamed.   


“Brian,” he pants into my ear, and he knows me, knows how to be with me, how to love me, how to fuck me, and I am slowly getting better at letting him. Learning that it is okay to let him.   


3:08, three plus eight equals eleven which cannot be divided by anything and especially not by two, but there are moments when I believe that for Justin and me, the math ruling our world doesn’t function, and when I come, it is without counting.


End file.
